oh captain, my captain
by Shakespeare Diva
Summary: a transfer to Hogwarts with a strange sorting and even stranger past drives enemy Quidditch captains to a frenzied pitch. Oliver-lovin' goodness.
1. always alone

"So, this is Hogwarts…" the words just breathed out of the young girl's throat as the ancient castle rose up before her on the lake. Dozens of lantern-bedecked lanterns floated across the misty water, and the dark mass of enchanting stone that rose up before her made her swear she was coming to Camelot. The awed chatter of the first year's seemed to dim as they approached the shore, the giant-like groundkeeper, Hagrid, ushering the new students off the boats and towards the school. Liz could barely contain herself. She followed the throng, the noisy first-years pushing her every which way in their hurried excitement, but she didn't care. The smooth, cool stones that rose up in front of her, the way the grass shimmered in the pearly moonlight, everything seemed so ethereal, so enchanted, and so perfect. She smiled, pushing her glasses up her long nose, her eyes hungrily drinking in the sights, when a hand hooked onto the crook of her elbow and pulled her from the crowd.  
  
Liz looked around, to find a girl smiling at her. Wildly brown curls bounced around the girl's warm, friendly face, her brown eyes glimmering at Liz.  
  
"You're Elizabeth, right? Elizabeth Shakespeare?"  
  
Liz nodded.  
  
"Right, thought so. Professor McGonagall told me to come out here and be on the look out for you. You're pretty easy to spot, you must be the only seventh year out here. You're head and shoulders about everyone else." She laughed. She had a nice laugh, Liz thought.  
  
"So, come on, let's get you inside. Don't want you to get sorted again, hunh?" she laughed again, looping her arm through Liz's, leading her through a small arbor and into a moonlight filled courtyard.  
  
"By the way, what house did you get sorted into? McGonagall wouldn't tell me."  
  
"Slytherin." Liz said quietly. The other girl just stared at her.  
  
"Slytherin? Oh..." there was an uncomfortable silence in the air as the two girls made their way through the courtyard and to a large oak door. She pushed the door open and stood aside for Liz to enter, her usual smile back on her face.  
  
'There you go, in from the wilderness."  
  
Liz stepped into the dimly corridor slowly, the door closing behind her with an echoing thud. Torches on the tapestried walls cast odd, flickering lights and shadows across the cobbled floor that stretched for seemed an eternity in either direction.  
  
"Come on, we gotta get you to the Sorting Ceremony." The other girl said as she turned and clipped-slopped off down the hallway. Liz watched her for a moment, pondering whether she should follow the nice stranger, or go exploring on her own. Liz took the safe route, and was soon clipping behind her guide.  
  
"You seem to know your way around here very well." Liz said quietly.  
  
"Well, I've been here all five years. I'm prefect now for Gryfindor. That's my house. Oh heavens!" she gasped, whirling around to face Liz. "How rude of me, I completely forgot introductions. I'm Hermione Granger, pleased to meet you." She said, holding out her hand to Liz who took it and shook it weakly. Hermione looked at the girl through friendly eyes, her mind, as usual, clicking away with sumerazations of the girl before her.  
  
"Well, well, if it isn't Miss Granger, I should have known." A cold voice droned from behind Liz. Hermione's face went stony and she dropped Liz's hand.  
  
"Good evening Professor Snape."  
  
Liz turned around slowly, and found a tall, gauntly thin back with greasy black hair and a pallid expression staring down at the two girls, his cold black eyes icy.  
  
"And what are you two ladies doing out here during the Sorting Ceremony? And you, Miss Granger, tsk, tsk, tsk. I would've expected better behavior from Gryfindor's prefect."  
  
"I was merely showing Miss Shakespeare around, Professor. She just transferred to Hogwarts and Professor McGonagall asked that I take her to the banquet."  
  
Snape now turned his attentions to the new girl before him. He inwardly gasped at the sight of her, however keeping his stony façade intact, as always. She was tall, thin, and pale, almost a carbon copy of him in his younger days. But her face, gaunt and clear, was hindered by glasses that masked her brilliant black eyes. Those eyes, he thought, I know those eyes…  
  
"Shakespeare, eh?"  
  
"Yes sir, Elizabeth Shakespeare." She mumbled quietly.  
  
Good, Severus thought, she's already scared. She shouldn't be too much of a problem.  
  
Hermione cleared her throat. "Um, excuse me, professor, but we really should be getting to the banquet. I'm sure Liz'll want to meet some people from her house before she gets settled."  
  
Snape nodded coldly, not knowing what else to do. He watched Hermione link arms with Liz and scurry off down the hall, no doubt declaiming him as a perfect bastard of a teacher and poor excuse for a man. Well, good. The last thing he needed was a snippy new transfer upsetting his delicate balance of power like the Potter trio did, year after year. Sulkily, he turned and made his way to the dinner as well, his ebony robes fluttering behind him as he moved, like soot covered wings.  
  
Hermione jabbered good-naturedly, but non-stop to Liz as the two made their way to the great hall. Liz's head spun with the prefect's "gossip" about their teachers, the good and the bad, Dumbledor, the changing staircases, the house ghosts, and finally, Quidditch.  
  
"Quidditch? You have Quidditch here?" Liz asked excitedly. Hermione was a bit surprised to find the quiet, ill-sorted girl finally becoming lively about anything, let alone Quidditch.  
  
"Yes, we do. And Gryfindor's got the best team, if I do say so myself." She beamed proudly. "Do you like Quidditch?"  
  
"Oh yes, very much."  
  
"You must play then. I've never seen anyone except Harry and Ron get this excited about the game. Well, Oliver's pretty talkative too."  
  
"Me? Play? Oh, no. Its just, I really like watching it. That's all."  
  
"Oh." Hermione trailed, rounding a corner and bounding up a flight of stairs, Liz helpless but to follow her. "See, I could never really get into the game. I guess I'd always preferred the common room to the great outdoors. Besides, all those people screaming, ugh! It's enough to drive you mad, I say."  
  
"I think it's exciting," Liz offered quietly, a small glint lighting up her eyes. Hermione smiled at her.  
  
"Yes, I think I shall have to introduce you to the boys. They've got enough stories that'll keep your head spinning for weeks. Oh! But here we are!" she said, stopping at a large stone archway. Through the opening, Liz could see a massively large room, dozens of brightly colored banners streaming from the walls. The ceiling was the inky blue-black of the night sky, a hundred tiny twinkling stars hanging in the stony rafters. The enchanted ceiling at Hogwarts, Liz thought, so it is true. She smiled at it, thinking how far more lovely it was in reality than in rumors.  
  
Then the noise hit her ears. Her face went pale again as she realized that the large room was filled with people. The four long house tables were packed with young witches and wizards in training, all jabbering away happily. Liz froze. She had never been social and had avoided occasions such as this with a devoted fervor. Now, she was being thrown into one. Her stomach began churning with nauseous threats as Hermione dragged her into the noisy, but beautiful hall, leading her through the aisles of tables to the head Gryfindor table.  
  
At the table, a crew of boys sat chattering away, most of who had red hair.  
  
"Hey, Hermione!" one of the boys yelled as he saw her approaching, "Where've you been?" he asked, tossing an orange at the girl. She caught it laughed, tossing it back. The boy who threw it, a boy with messy red hair and the faintest sprinkling of freckles, smiled back and began peeling the orange.  
  
"I've been running errands for McGonagall." She said, giving Liz a small wink.  
  
"McGonagall? Again? Really, Hermione, you need to stop being her lap dog. Every time she tells you to do something you do it." Another boy said, pushing his mess of pitch-black hair out of his bespectacled face.  
  
"Yes, well, this task actually proved enjoyable." She answered plopping down on one of the benches. She motioned for Liz to sit and the girl quietly moved to sit next to her new, and only, acquaintance. The boys were easily chatting with each other about how their summer's had been. Liz sat quietly, watching them all.  
  
There were two boys, twins obviously, with fiery red hair and freckles to match. Their eyes were laced with mischief, as were their smiles, which were employed more than anything else was. Their black Gryfindor robes were slightly frayed at the edges and seemed to be older, faded. Next to the twins sat the boy with black hair. His green eyes shone underneath his glasses and the few chunks of hair that stubbornly refused to stay out of his eyes. Underneath the ill-behaved bangs, Liz could see the barest outline, a scar in the shape of a lightening bolt. Her eyes widened slightly as she realized that she was sitting in spiting distance of THE Harry Potter. Kids at her old school had always talked about 'the boy who lived' with a quiet sense of wonderment and awe. She'd always imagined him to be some sort of god. She was rather relieved to find him to be a normal person, well, as normal as could be expected.  
  
"You sure you don't want some orange?" the redhead asked Hermione. She smiled and took a slice, munching on it pacively while she listened to the testosterone charged conversation. The other redhead continued to eat his orange, the juice dripping down his chin. Liz smiled as she realized he was growing out a goatee, the faintest hint of red stubble was systematically patterned along his strong chin and jaw line. His robes were a little worn as well, and seemed to be a tad too small for him, the strain of fabric hinting at the thin bulk of muscle that lay beneath.  
  
By the time Hermione and Liz had arrived at the great hall, the Ceremony had ended, and the first years were excitedly chatting up their new housemates. Liz looked around at the different tables, and found one that caught her eye. A brilliant green banner with a sleek, silver snake winding its way across the fabric hung over the table, a mass of black-robed students sitting beneath it. Unlike the rest of the school, however, this table was calmer, quieter, and every once in a while they sent cold sneers towards the other tables. Liz looked down at her own robes and gently fingered the patch near the collar, which matched the snake banner she had been admiring. That, she gathered, must be the Slytherin's table.  
  
"I think I'd better go." She quietly whispered to Hermione who was laughing at one of the twin's jokes.  
  
"Hmm? Oh, alright. Just be careful, and don't drink the water, it does something weird to you over there." She gave Liz a wink. "And remember, you're always welcome to sit with us, if you need to." This last bit was added with a seriousness that Liz found odd. She nodded and smiled weakly before pushing off the bench and making her way towards her table.  
  
Hermione watched the girl makes her way through the throngs of happily munching children, somewhat glad to see her sit at the end of the table, away from everyone else.  
  
"At least she's not near Draco," she murmured to herself.  
  
"Exactly what I was thinking,." A low voice answered. Hermione looked over to find Oliver staring calmly at the girl.  
  
"Didn't see you there Wood." She breathed, releasing a bit of her embarrassed shock on an airy sigh.  
  
"Yes, neither did she." He said, nodding towards the newest addition to Snape's house. He took a contemplative bite of his apple, his strong hazel eyes latched on to Liz's almost waifish figure.  
  
"Do you think she'll make it over there?" he asked, his brogue lacing every word. Hermione shrugged.  
  
"I don't know. Maybe."  
  
"Probably not, though." He took another bite. "I just don't understand how someone like her got sorted into that house. It makes no sense. She's wrong over there."  
  
"Where would you have her then, Wood? Gryfindor?"  
  
"No. Just not over there. They'll eat her alive. Especially Malfoy." Her turned his eyes to the prefect sitting next to him. "She won't last a week."  
  
"Unless she has some friends." She said, her voice becoming marked and purposeful.  
  
"There you go, Granger. All you have to do is befriend her and she saved." He droned sardonically. Hermione glared good naturedly at him.  
  
"Well, do you have any better ideas? I know it wont make ALL of her troubles disappear. I'm not that stupid. But it would make things a bit easier for her. That's all anyone can hope to do for her, I suppose."  
  
"My, but aren't we sounding maternal and philosophical?"  
  
"Oh, stuff it Wood." She said, smiling in spite of herself. Wood quirked his eyebrows and finished off his apple, dropping onto his empty plate. His eyes latched once more on the girl across the room, his face falling into silent contemplation.  
  
"Well, guys," Hermione said, standing up, rearranging her robes and her prefect badge, "I gotta show the first years to their rooms. Don't stay up too late." She warned, wagging a finger at the bunch before her. Harry laughed.  
  
"Us? Come on, Mione, don't you trust us?"  
  
she answered with a stern look before she marched off the front of the hall, calling the Gryfindor first years to follow her.  
  
Almost as soon as she got up, Wood stood as well, his eyes glued to the sidewall.  
  
"Hey, Oliver? You alright?" one of the twins asked in between mouthfuls of his roll.  
  
"Yea, I'm fine. I just think I need to take a little walk is all. See you guys tomorrow." He said, half-heartedly. The guys shrugged and went back to talking about the Chudley Cannons and the newest models of racing brooms. Oliver, however, followed a dark haired girl as she wandered quietly out of the banquet hall, away from the crowds, unaware she was being followed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N Liz is based on an RP character of mine. So loves and kissles to everyone who recognizes her. And I know the stories a bit.. wack… but stay with it. The voices in my head said they really like this one, and I'm inclined to believe… 


	2. wandering

Nearby halls were filled with the low murmur of voices as they were lead through the old castle to their rooms. Liz could hear the prefects calling to stray first years as they clamored up the stone stairwells. Luckily for Liz, it seemed to her, she was alone this particular wing hadn't seen attacked by an onslaught of students, new or old. She walked slowly down the hall, similar to the one she had entered through with Hermione earlier. Large iron torches stood, bolted to the walls, the thin veil of wispy black smoke curling towards the ceiling. Along the wall a few rich, velvety tapestries hung, various pictures woven into them. She stopped in front of one that captured her attention. An old looking man with stern eyes and a long, knarly staff stood on top of a barren promontory. Below him a small ship was tossed unmercifully about in the waves of a raging sea storm. At the man's feet, a pretty young girl knelt, her hands clasped in supplication while an airy creature, a fairy maybe, floated by the old man's head tossing fire in-between it's slender fingers. The intricately woven scene that met her bespectacled eyes seemed warmly familiar to her, as she heard her father's voice whispering in her memory.  
  
"No one knew he was a wizard, they just assumed he was a brilliant muggle. And even though the old magician's character seemed to mirror his own, no one ever knew that the story was really a sort of autobiography."  
  
"If by your art, my dearest father, you have put the wild waters in this roar, allay them…" she whispered almost mutely to the fabric, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Those words, and so many like them, they always brought her home and gave her comfort in the darkest of places. In the darkness of the corridor, she thought she heard the faint clip of footsteps landing on the cobbled floor. Nonsense, she told herself, your mind's just playing tricks on you. "The sky it seems would poor down stinking pitch, but that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheeks, dashes the fire out." She continued quietly, hoping to calm her frazzled nerves at the thought of company. All her speech did was to incite her supposed- imaginary guest to finish her line, his own low voice rumbling through the passage like a warm wind.  
  
"Oh, I have suffered with those I saw suffered. A brave vessel that had no doubt some noble creature in her, dashed all to pieces."  
  
Liz stiffened only slightly and turned slowly to face the voice's owner. Her eyes widened and she managed a tiny gasp as an unearthly gorgeous boy, no, young man stood before her. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. The lights from the torches cast odd shadows over hi face, but he was still… perfect. His eyes, those fathomless brown eyes, stared intently at her while a small grin tugged at one corner of his mouth, those full lips…  
  
"Most sure the goddess on whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe, my prayer may know, oh you wonder, if you be maid or no?" the embodiment of all virtues finished. Liz smiled as she recognized the words, that most welcome feeling of comfort washing over her, doubled now because it came from such a being.  
  
"That's Shakespeare," she said, her thin voice echoing majestically in the hall. "The Tempest." The man nodded.  
  
"Right after Ferdinand finds Miranda. Am I right?" he asked. Liz nodded, barely, her ears ringing with his voice, so low and delicately rumbly, with a strong Scottish accent rolling through his words. Like music, she thought, like bagpipes, she added, smiling.  
  
"I thought so," he assured himself, pushing off the wall. He walked to the tapestry, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Ah, Prospero. What apiece of work is man." He sighed, shaking his head.  
  
"That's from Hamlet." She quietly corrected. He started for a moment, then turned his head to look at her, his eyes boring right through her.  
  
"So it is. My mistake." He smiled. Smiled. And Liz felt her knees start to go weak. No, please no, she thought, mustering all the strength that would respond, please don't let me faint. Not here, not now. It would be mortifying. For once her body obeyed and merely slumped against the wall, darting her eyes towards the hanging and away from his dangerous eyes.  
  
"I'm Oliver, by the way. Oliver Wood." He said, never taking his eyes from the girl.  
  
"And who might you be, besides the second biggest Shakespeare expert at the school?"  
  
Liz looked at him oddly. "Second?"  
  
"Well, I would be first, wouldn't I? Not withstanding my little Hamlet mix up, I'm proud to say I'm possibly the world's foremost scholar of the bard." Liz just stared at him, fighting hard not to laugh.  
  
"So, do you have a name, or shall I call you my dark lady?"  
  
"Elizabeth." She managed, her eyes glimmering with undone laughter.  
  
"Elizabeth… what?"  
  
"Elizabeth… Shakespeare, actually." She said, bursting into a fit of laughter. Oliver just started at her, blushing.  
  
"Alright then, maybe I'm not number one after all." He chuckled, his warm baritone rolling through her delicate soprano. So, she does laugh, he thought with relief. Watching the bizarrely stoic girl at dinner had worried him, slightly. He'd never seen anyone so stressed, so uneasy at Hogwarts, the teachers and over all environment usually forced the happiness right out of you, whether you wanted it or not. But this girl seemed genuinely at peace with her distress, and that disturbed him. until he heard her laugh, that is.  
  
"So, are you an actual…"  
  
"Descendant? Yes, I am. Pure blooded all the way back."  
  
"Wow. A real live Shakespeare, right before my very eyes. Do you write?"  
  
"A little. Not as well as gramps did, but I try."  
  
Gramps? He thought. "You're not from here, are you?" she shyly shook her head.  
  
"I transferred here from Salem Academy in Massachusetts."  
  
Wood's eyes widened. "America? You're from America then?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
"Wow. We've never had a Yankee here before."  
  
Liz smiled. So, she was an oddity. She wondered how well she would fit that part, the mysterious foreigner. Hmm…  
  
"Listen, I saw you stalk out here,"  
  
"I did not stalk." She corrected with quiet dignity.  
  
"Alright, walk, out here and I was wondering where you were going,"  
  
"Well, I actually don't know. I just thought I might wander around a bit, get a feel for the school, I guess."  
  
"No, around here you don't just wander. Not unless you have an experienced guide."  
  
"And you, I suppose, would pass for an experienced guide?"  
  
"Well, I didn't want to say anything, but yes. I mean after all, I have gone here all seven years. If that doesn't give you some first hand knowledge with this place's geography I don't know what will."  
  
"So, you're a seventh year, too?" she asked. He nodded in reply. "Hmm. Well, I seem to think that that Hermione girl would be a better guide than you, Mr. Wood."  
  
"Granger?" he asked, feigning shock. "How can you be serious? She's nothing but a little fifth year." He said with amusingly fake affectedness. "Besides, Hermione doesn't know where to find "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare" in the library, and I do. So that's two strikes against her."  
  
Liz just stared at him, his face washed with his brilliant smile.  
  
"So, you think you could show me where the library is?" she managed shyly. Oliver's face fell into seriousness as he held out his arm for her. Liz slipped her own tiny limb through his, marveling at how big his arm was, at how warm he was…  
  
Oliver smiled down at her politely, quietly making their way down the hall to the library. He breathed, a strange new smell permeating the musty hall. Roses. He looked down at the girl next to him and smiled. She smelled like roses, beautiful roses. Stop it Wood, he warned himself. No good in thinking stuff like that, now is there? And to tell the truth there wasn't. But there also was no good in his taking this strangely alluring recluse to the library their first night back. Nor was there any good in his following her at all. But he was, and he had a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that he was going to be doing exactly what he was doing for quite sometime. 


	3. words

Liz's next few days at Hogwarts seemed to whirl by. After the nightly trip to the library, Liz had been able to make her way back every day since, heading for the same section every time. All of her classes were with Oliver, which she thought a rather lucky plus, seeing as the dashing reader was also and excellent tour guide. She was amazed at the stark vastness of the school, the exquisitely decorated stairways and walls, the paintings with subjects that moved about and offered advice, the school's ghosts, even Peeves, everything was far beyond what her expectations ever could have dreamed. What she loved most of all though, were the grounds. She had always been a romantic at heart, and imagined herself like a heroine in a Jane Austin novel, roaming through the well cared for lawns, the vivid green grass blazing for miles until it hit the creamy blue sky far off on the horizon.  
  
Her first Friday afternoon found her sitting in Snape's potions class, just as every afternoon would find her. She sat in the back, where she preferred. People didn't notice you in the shadows as much, and from where she was sitting she could see everyone. She'd always liked people watching. It's far safer to watch then to be watched, she'd written in a journal some years ago, but it was true. She loved watching things happen, especially in the wizarding world.  
  
For instance, Moira Combs, a seventh year from Slytherin, always held her pinky up when she poured whatever vile was needed into her cauldron. Very ladylike. And Katie Bell from Gryfindor, she always stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth when she was measuring. Everyone had a quirk, and odd habit that was the gateway to a story. That's what her father had always told her. Pay attention to the details, Lizzie, it's in the details that all the fun happens.  
  
"Miss Shakespeare" the cold voice of the potions master breathed down her neck. "I suggest you pay more attention to your work than to everyone else's. Cheating, although at times admirable, is not a very Slytherin virtue." He hissed.  
  
"Oh, but sir," she replied meekly, "I wasn't cheating."  
  
"You weren't? Then pray, tell me what you were doing? Because it certainly was not your assignment."  
  
"I was… um…"  
  
"You were what, Miss Shakespeare?"  
  
"She was waiting for me to get finished with the scales, sir." Wood's strong voice cut through. The other two's heads snapped to look at the young man standing in front of Liz's desk, a pair of brass scales in his large, strong hands.  
  
"And why would you have Miss Shakespeare's scales, Wood?" the professor sneered down at Liz's savior.  
  
"Because I broke mine and she was kind enough to let me borrow hers. Thanks Liz," he said, putting the scales down in front of her, giving her a little encouraging wink. "Sorry I kept them for so long. Hope I didn't mess you up too badly."  
  
"You didn't, thank you…" she squeaked her eyes gone dewy.  
  
"Alright Wood, back to your seat, I think that's enough chivalry for one day, don't you think?"  
  
Snape stared down at the boy who gave a short nod and walked back to his desk and began hurriedly chattering with his lab partners, Alicia Spinnet and Katie.  
  
"I'd be more careful, if I were you, Miss Shakespeare. The captain of the Quidditch team never makes for good company."  
  
"What… you mean, Oliver's the captain of the Quidditch team?"  
  
"Yes, for Gryfindor at any rate. Just be careful, Miss Shakespeare." He warned, and Liz started a bit to hear such a strange warmth in his voice. Liz wondered at his words as she watched him fly past her, off to torment some other student. But, for all of the professor's prophetically cryptic warnings, one thought seemed to take hold of her mind; Oliver was the team captain. Her heart beat just a little bit faster in a sudden rush of excitement. Her mind was filled with memories of Quidditch at her old school, the cheering fans, all of it. She imagined what Oliver must look like in his Quidditch robes, flying about the stadium, the wind blowing through his honey colored hair… She shook herself out of her daydreams and turned her attentions to her class work, not wanting to attract Snape's attentions again.  
  
That's when she noticed the folded slip of parchment resting on one of the scales. She furrowed her brow at the sight, pausing a moment in thought before she tentatively reached out and picked it up. She gasped when she opened it, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle her rising giggles. In splotchy, but non-the-less nice, but very boyish, handwriting, she found these words,  
  
Liz,  
  
Meet me after class in the library, please?  
  
-O.W  
  
He wanted to see her. She blushed so red she could feel her ears burning. Thankfully, the loud clang of the classroom's clock sounded, thudding out the end of classes for the week. Liz hurriedly grabbed her notebooks, stuffing the precious note into her pocket, and hurried out of the classroom with surprising speed, making sure she didn't run into anyone unnecessarily.  
  
~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
  
He wasn't exactly sure why he'd done it, given her the note. He'd barely spoken to her that week. She was so, solitary, so afraid of people that she'd almost insisted she sat in the back of their classes, even though he'd offered to sit her with the Gryfindor team, his friends. She was such an odd bird. He'd never met anyone, let alone a girl, that hadn't wanted to sit with him. He was always, the "cool" guy; good student, captain of the Gryfindor team, and not a bad looker if he did say so himself. So why was this girl so… immune… to all of that? She was a puzzlement, to say the least, but a very welcomed puzzlement.  
  
He smiled to himself as he gathered up his books and climbed the tiered classroom to the dungeons doors.  
  
"Hey, Wood!" Alicia called after him. "We still got practice today?"  
  
"Of course we do, what makes you think we wouldn't? Our first match is in two weeks."  
  
"But, Wood, it's the weekend!" the girl moaned.  
  
"And… your point is?"  
  
"Come on, man, cut us some slack! We've been at practice almost every day this week! We need a break!" the girl stormed angrily.  
  
"And you'll get a break, my dear Alicia. Tomorrow."  
  
She stood there for a moment, toeing the line with him. Finally she let out a growl and threw her hands in the air, stalking off down the hall. Oliver smiled to himself. Poor Alicia, he thought. He shrugged as he finished climbing out of the dungeon.  
  
The sunshine slanted through the tall windows pleasantly, throwing wide beams of butter-colored light across the sleek wooden floorboards. A few students wandered down the halls, their robes unbuttoned and their ties loosened. Ready for the weekend, Oliver thought. His own robes flared out behind him as he moved deftly through the halls, dodging the few students that had yet to make it to their common rooms. he jogged down a few small flights of stairs and rounded a corner, the tapestried hallway stretching before his eyes. The windows stopped in this part of the castle, and the dim lighting of the torches cast a midnight glow to the corridor. His footsteps clipped hurriedly down the cobbled floor as he made his way to the library, pausing just a moment before Prospero's tapestry, a smile creeping across his face.  
  
He slipped into the library quietly. He was always awed at how this one place always commanded pristine, almost religious, silence. A hurricane could've been raging outside, but had it dared to enter the library, it would've silenced itself to a whisper. Maybe that's why he liked it in here so much.  
  
He walked down the aisles of books, the faded labels on their leathery spines almost whispering with dust as he moved past. The faintest of noises caught his attention and he stopped moving just long enough to make it out. It was the quiet, but unmistakable sound of pages being turned. He smiled and sneaked about, following his ears. Soon enough he found Liz curled up in one of the library's large high-backed chair, a leather backed book siting opened in her lap. She was leaning on her hand, her eyes peering intently down at the script before her through her thick lenses.  
  
"Look how she leans her hand upon her cheek," he found himself murmuring quietly, "Oh that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek!"  
  
"Ah me…" Liz sighed quietly, as she turned a page. Oliver just stared at her, almost dumbstruck. "She speaks…" he ventured, slightly awed at the remarkableness of the scene before him.  
  
"Oh, speak again, bright angel," he said a bit too loudly. Liz started and turned, her face blushing slightly when she saw him.  
  
"Oliver!" she panted in fading shock, her hand resting on her chest now. He watched as it rose and fell, slowing down to a normal breaths.  
  
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."  
  
"No, you just startled me is all."  
  
He walked over and pulled up a plainer looking wooden chair, swinging it around and throwing his legs over the back, straddling it.  
  
"So, whatcha reading?" she closed the book, letting the brilliant gold lettering glimmering in the reading light; The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Oliver chuckled throatily, like rolling thunder Liz thought. "I might have known." He picked up the book from her lap and set it down on the long table in front of them, opening it back to her book marked page. "Hamlet? Hmn…"  
  
"Why 'hmn…'?"  
  
"I just would've had you pegged for a romance girl. Romeo and Juliet, that sort."  
  
"I hate Romeo and Juliet." She said making a face like she'd just eaten bad baby food. "Besides, there's romance in Hamlet."  
  
"Oh, right, crazy Ophelia."  
  
"She only crazy at the end. And Hamlet loves her."  
  
He couldn't help but smile at her. 'Are you always so sure of yourself?"  
  
"I am when I'm right." She smiled back. "So, why did you want to see me?"  
  
'Oh, right." He fumbled, blushing a bit, or were her eyes playing tricks on her. "Well, you see I… ugh, you're gonna think I'm stupid."  
  
"No I'm not. Honest injun."  
  
Honest injun? He thought. Merlin, but she is American.  
  
"Well, anyway. I just, hadn't seen too much if you lately,"  
  
"But I'm in every one of your classes." She interjected.  
  
"But I never see you. You always sit in the back."  
  
"I like it back there." She said quietly. It seemed to him that entire body drew backwards into the chair, farther away from him.  
  
"Anyway," he coughed a bit, not liking the sudden tension. "I just.. missed talking to you." Liz looked up at him, her eyes shy but full of something he could barely put his finger on. Hope? Maybe. Whatever it was, he liked it. "Besides, I had to ask how your first week was."  
  
"Oh, it was wonderful." She said her face becoming dreamy. 'The classes are just, amazing! I mean, I never had lessons like these back at Salem! And the teachers are so, wonderful, well, with one exception." She said sheepishly.  
  
"Don't worry too much about Snape. He's that horrid to everyone, even his own house."  
  
"Thank you, by the way, for helping me earlier, I really appreciate it."  
  
He smiled warmly at her. "No, don't mention it. Besides, you looked like you were need of some help, and I'm always happy to oblige a pretty lady."  
  
He was inwardly slapping himself the minute he'd said it. Pretty lady? Who did he think he was? She, in turn blushed slightly. Pretty? Her? He must just be joking, she told herself, don't read too much into it. She found a nagging pain behind her eyes and she pulled her glasses off, pinching the bridge of her nose.  
  
Oliver gasped silently. He'd often marveled at the sappy love stories Katie would read, where once the brilliant, but bespectacled spinster took her glasses off, the entire male population of the world was after her. He had some idea of what they were talking about now.  
  
Saying that Liz was pretty was an understatement, bordering on lie. Looking at her made a thousand things rush through his head, remembering the way she smelled, how soft her voice was when she spoke, her eyes. He could really see her eyes now, wide and brown, like a frightened doe. He felt like a poet, with a thousand words and images running around his heart, fighting to burst out. He didn't want to take his eyes off of her, and that moment, such a miniscule second, seemed like forever to the young captain.  
  
Then she put her glasses back on.  
  
Strangely enough, though, the enchantment wasn't over. She was still lovely to him. And he didn't know why.  
  
"So, when's your first match?"  
  
"Hmn? My what?" he asked, breaking from his daze.  
  
"You're first Quidditch match. When is it?"  
  
"Oh, right." His face clouded a bit. 'You know about Quidditch?"  
  
"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"  
  
"No reason, it's just that I didn't think they had it in America."  
  
"Of course we do. It's a wizarding sport, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes, I suppose your right." She beamed proudly.  
  
"Ravenclaw. In two weeks."  
  
"Wow. That's awfully early, isn't it?"  
  
He shrugged. "I guess it is. But I don't make the schedule, I just play."  
  
"Well, you must play pretty well. Snape told me you're the Gryfindor team captain."  
  
"Snape told you? Well, yea, I am." He said, blushing a bit. "Quidditch is my obsession, you see."  
  
"Oh really? And here I was thinking it was Shakespeare." She grinned.  
  
He put a finger to his lips. "Shh. Now don't go telling anyone my secret."  
  
She laughed. "I promise I wont. Scout's honor." She pledged, holding up her honorary sign of three fingers. Oliver's puzzled scowl made her laugh even more. "Here," she said, reaching over and grabbing his hand molding his fingers in a similar fashion. "See? Now you're a scout too." She giggled. Then she noticed they were all but holding hands. It was Oliver's intent gaze on her fingers that drew her attention to it. She looked away shyly and moved to sit back in her chair, but his fingers closed around her, keeping her from moving. She looked up at him, finding his gentle brown eyes peering across at her. She didn't know what to do, whether she should pull away and leave or stay with him like this all night. Luckily for her, Oliver made the decision, and it was nothing of what she'd expected.  
  
He moved quickly, assuredly, like every movement he made. Liz barely had time to think as the space between them grew smaller and smaller until there was nothing but breath between them. He hovered over her lips for a moment and his smell almost overpowered her.  
  
"Did you know," he whispered throatily, his lips slightly brushing against her own. "That you smell like roses?"  
  
She made a small, cooing noise that came out as something like a no and she shook her head excitedly. Her head stopped when she felt his hand slide across her cheek, cradling her face in his sure fingers.  
  
"Well, you do." He whispered before gently pressing his lips against her own. He's so soft, she thought as the shock of the kiss slowly began to wear off. And to Oliver's surprise, she was kissing him back. Her lips were eagerly reaching for his own and he could feel her fingers trace his jawbone.  
  
That's when he pulled away, leaving Liz to stare at him in wide-eyed shock.  
  
"What…" she mumbled, flushing a deep pink. So pretty, he thought. No. Stop it Wood.  
  
"I... I'm sorry… I shouldn't have… I'm sorry." He sputtered before bolting out of his chair.  
  
Liz stared at his empty seat for minute before she picked up her notebooks from the table and started to leave. Leaving was the plan, until her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, her hands dropping her things as they flew to cover her weeping eyes.  
  
The last thing Wood heard as he rushed out of the library was the pristine silence broken by her pained sobs. 


	4. man to man talk

Oliver sat at the top of the stadium's wooden stands, his face leaning on his hands. The moon shone down on the now empty Quidditch field and on the solitary figure that sulked in lonely contemplation.  
  
"Hey, Wood." A voice called. Oliver lifted his head off his knuckles to find a mess of red-hair steadily climbing up to him.  
  
"Percy, what on earth are you doing up here?"  
  
"I might ask you the same thing, old fellow."  
  
"Oh, I'm just… just thinking is all."  
  
"Thinking? Maybe you should've done a bit more of that during practice, eh?" Percy said, sitting down next to his friend.  
  
"You were watching? Percy, you know practices are restricted to,"  
  
"To team members, yes I know. But as head boy I feel it's my duty to… check up on my house."  
  
"Oh, right." Oliver mumbled.  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
"Yes, I'm fine. Why, don't I seem fine?"  
  
"Wood, don't try to pull anything past me. I'm smarter than you." He said, smiling wickedly. Oliver just laughed. "Besides, you're too obvious when something's on your mind."  
  
"Obvious? How am I obvious?"  
  
"You fell off your broom."  
  
"So?"  
  
"Three times."  
  
"Five, actually." Percy stared at him, thunder struck. "I was doing some warm up maneuvers before everyone else got here."  
  
"Alright," Percy sighed, crossing his arms in an authoritative manner. "What's her name?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Oliver, you've never fallen off of your broom. Ever. Not once, in all of my seven years of knowing you have you ever, EVER, fallen off of your broom or even hinted at a mistake at Quidditch. Tonight, you were full of them. The only thing in the world that could get you this messed up and unfocused is a girl. So unless you want me to send George and Fred to spy after you, which, believe me they'd be more than willing to do, you might as well just tell me."  
  
Oliver sighed. And leaned onto the railing behind him, his face looking tired.  
  
'I kissed her." Now Percy was interested.  
  
"Kissed who?"  
  
"Liz, I kissed Liz."  
  
Percy's face clouded with thoughtful confusion. "Liz… oh! You mean the American transfer? What's her name... Liz… Whitman? Marlowe?"  
  
"Shakespeare. And yes, that's her."  
  
"And you kissed her?"  
  
Oliver nodded glumly.  
  
"Wow. Good going, mate." He said, clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder. Oliver shrugged him off.  
  
" No, mate, not good. She trusted me, Percy. She trusted me and I hurt her."  
  
"Hurt her? Man, you must be a bad kisser…"  
  
"Will you stop it? I swear, you're almost as bad as those brothers of yours."  
  
"Yes, well, that's just our little secret, isn't it?" he said, secretly thankful that there was one person on the planet he didn't have to be "stern Percy" with. Wood didn't care if he was barking orders or getting better grades than everyone else (except maybe Hermione). That's what made him the ideal friend.  
  
"What am I going to do, Perc?"  
  
"Do? I'm afraid I don't see why anything has to be done."  
  
"What? Are you seriously daft? I kissed her, Percy. Kissed. Her. Do you have nay idea what that means?"  
  
"It doesn't mean anything." His face curled into a sneaky smile. "Unless you fancy her."  
  
"Unless I what?!" Oliver almost exploded, rising to his feet. Percy just looked at him.  
  
"You do, don't you?"  
  
"Oh, don't be ridiculous."  
  
"No, you do. If you didn't you wouldn't be getting this worked up about it."  
  
"I don't not like her!" he boomed, exasperated. "I don't even know her! I don't know, her father's name, or why she transferred here from Salem,"  
  
"Wait," Percy interrupted, "You say she came from Salem Academy?"  
  
"Yea, why?"  
  
"No reason…" he murmured, his face fully displaying that the well- oiled wheels in his mind were working. Oliver didn't notice.  
  
"I don't know, anything about her, Perc."  
  
"Then why did you kiss her?" he earnestly asked his friend. Oliver's face went blank.  
  
"I… I don't know." He collapsed back onto the bleachers.  
  
"I don't know, Percy. But, have you ever, just felt something, something that seemed so right, and you don't know why and it makes no sense?"  
  
"Oh yea, I feel that way all the time." The redhead moaned.  
  
"No, seriously." He sighed, his face growing soft. "I don't know what it is about her. I feel like I can tell her anything, like I'd trust her with my soul…"  
  
"Yes," Percy interrupted, "But would you trust her with your broom?" Oliver laughed.  
  
"No, you know you're the only one I'd give my broom to, Perc."  
  
Percy puffed himself up a little, making Oliver laugh even more. "Glad to see you still have your priorities straight." Oliver's laughs settled down and his face grew serious again.  
  
"What am I going to do?"  
  
"I'd stay away from her for a while," Percy replied, his face completely sober. "It'll give you both some time to think, sort stuff out and what not."  
  
"Right…"  
  
"Besides, you've got a Quidditch match in a few weeks that you need to at least stay on your broom for."  
  
"Right. Gotcha." He smiled. "Thanks Perc."  
  
"What's a best friend for?"  
  
"I swear, if you ever let anyone see the side of you that I do…"  
  
'What? I'd be more popular than.. Harry Potter?"  
  
Both the boys laughed at that as they stood up and sauntered out of the stadium. 


	5. firelight

The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet that Saturday night. The smoldering embers in the ornate fireplace glimmered quietly, casting a surprisingly serene glow to the stately green room. Suddenly the door burst open, and the muddied shuffle of cleats scrapped across the polished wooden floor. Low murmurs of talking and laughing gently filled the spacious room.  
  
"Alright guys, get some sleep. Good practice." Came a lowly voice that commanded with its silence. The shuffling started off towards the dorms, and soon the common room was as quiet as the grave once more.  
  
Marcus Flint sighed and ran a hand through his unruly mess of black curls. Practice had been especially grueling tonight. He hated taking the field last, especially after Gryfindor and that damned Oliver Wood. Every muscle in his body ached from the chilly night flying but his mind was suffering the worst fatigue of all. Classes had begun to take a toll on the seventh year and with homework and Quiddtich practice, his schedule was filling up far too quickly for his liking. All he needed was some time off. That and a nice hot shower. He smiled, realizing that a shower was something in his immediate power and he turned to do just that. But something caught his eye, a small white figure curled up in one of the large high-backed chairs before the fire. He cautiously crept forward to get a better look, careful so as not to hit the few loose, squeaky floorboards that dotted the ground like land minds. The white figure came into focus as a young girl, well, a young woman, wild brown curls falling about her shoulders, thick glass with delicate little frames masking her eyes set on a slender, creamy face. She was clothed in a simple white nightgown that covered her legs, which were at present curled up underneath her, aiding the repose of a book that lay open in her lap.  
  
A few steps closer showed it not to be a book, but a notebook, across which the girl's slender fingers moved a billowy quill, producing the most elegant script the Slytherin captain had ever seen.  
  
"Mind some company?" he asked before he even new he'd opened his mouth. The girl's head snapped up to look at the intruder on her solitude, and Flint noticed her eyes widening a bit behind her glasses when she spotted him.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone else was up." She said softly. Marcus was awed by the softness, the gentleness of her tones, which sent a small shiver through his heart, though it was probably nothing.  
  
"Not too many are, I think. We just got back from practicing after dinner. I hope we didn't disturb you." He added, shooting a concerned look at her writing.  
  
'No, not at all, thank you." That voice, he thought, it's so different…  
  
Then it hit him.  
  
"You're the new girl, aren't you?"  
  
"Yes, I am. Elizabeth Shakespeare, nice to meet you." She said, holding out her hand. Her small, white hand, he thought as he took it. Then he noticed the telltale ink stains of a writer's hands and he couldn't help but smile at this inky swan.  
  
"Marcus Flint." The girl's eyes widened a bit more.  
  
"Flint? Then you're Slytherin's captain, aren't you?"  
  
"I see my reputation precedes me."  
  
'No, it's just, everyone talks about you around here," she said, making a small gesture to the emerald draped walls of the house's comfortable dungeons. "And I can't help but listen sometimes."  
  
"And what do they say?" Marcus was genuinely interested in his gossip. However, the low bass of his voice lent his words to a more suave manner of speaking than he had awareness of. And somehow, Liz liked it.  
  
"Well, mostly they, well, the girls, talk about what a great flyer you are."  
  
"Oh." He said, slightly disappointed.  
  
"And, how… cute… you were…" Liz blushed slightly at her words. She's never said such a thing to a guy before, let alone one she'd just met. Even if it was true.  
  
"Ah, that's more like it." He said, laughing, which caused a small giggle from her.  
  
"So, are you working on homework? McGonagal's essay?"  
  
"No… just some poems…"  
  
"Poems? You write? I mean, you find time to write? Wow… I can barely find time to breathe in between school and practice."  
  
"Well, its not too hard."  
  
"Hard? When do you have time for it? I swear I spend at least three hour every night on homework alone."  
  
"That's just because you don't know how to budget your time correctly."  
  
"Then teach me." He said, reaching out and sliding the book off of her lap, closing it and placing it beside her on the floor. He pulled a chair up closer to her and sat down in it, while Liz watched, a bemusedly pleasant expression on her face.  
  
"Well, first of all, you need to get you're work done in class."  
  
"But I do."  
  
"Right. But if you get it done as quickly as they're all meant to be done…"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, take potions for example. All it is is measuring and pouring exactly. You can finish with your class work in fifteen minutes, which leaves you more than an hour to devote to other things. So long as you play like you're measuring and having a terrible time of it when Snape walks around, you'll have no trouble with him."  
  
"Then in charms, once you've got the basic swish and flick you're good to go. Just pay attention when he says the incantation, syllable stresses are very important. Copy him to the letter and you're done. That's another hour."  
  
Marcus just stared at her with dumb fascination.  
  
"Do you know, it's taken you a week to figure out what most, if not all of this school, hasn't in seven years?"  
  
"Yes, well, I am an American. We do have a knack for cutting corners, I suppose." She said, offering him a smile.  
  
"Yes, I suppose you have…" he was lost in that smile, in the serene surety of it. She knew what she was doing, in all things, it seemed to him. And she was so, lovely. Not that it mattered. But it certainly helped.  
  
"Well, I'd better get to bed. You'd better too. Don't want to miss breakfast tomorrow."  
  
"Of course not. Best Danishes in the wizarding world, I'm assured of it." He chuckled.  
  
Liz stood up, letting the gown fall over her long legs. She bent over and picked up her notebook, hugging it protectively to her chest.  
  
"Good night." She murmured before scurrying out of the room and disappearing behind the girl's dorm's doors. Marcus leaned back in his chair and sighed.  
  
"Whatever else may happen," he cooed encouragingly to the fire, "She will be mine." 


	6. a gift

The next week was perfectly horrid for Oliver. Percy's advice about staying away from Liz, although perfectly sound, was a bit hard to follow. Knowing that she was in all of his classes, and that he wasn't to talk to her, made the urge to turn around and stare at the girl who always sat in the back harder to ignore. He wanted to apologize, to laugh if off, to kiss her again, anything, but he hated not being able to sit with her in the library and watch her while she read. He hated being away from her.  
  
"Hey, Wood?" Angelina's voice brought him out of his dreaming and back to the defense against the dark arts.  
  
"Hmn? What?"  
  
"You've been spacey all class. Professor Lambert's gonna say something."  
  
"Sorry." He mumbled and tried to focus on the textbook in front of him. Then the heavy clock chimed, sounding the end of classes. Oliver sighed and got up, trying to gather the loose pieces of parchment that he seemed to have scattered around the desk during class.  
  
His ears perked as he heard laughter coming from the back of the classroom. He picked up his books and turned to see what the commotion was. It was Elizabeth that was laughing, he could see her face lighted up with a broad smile. He almost found himself wanting to smile with her, until he noticed Marcus Flint leaning over her, a thin smile on his sallow face.  
  
Marcus Flint.  
  
Oliver felt his fist begin to curl at the very sight of him, but seeing him laughing with Liz made his blood boil even more. Then, almost as if on cue, the two walked out of the classroom, Flint's eyes glued onto Liz as she floated up ahead of him.  
  
It was everything he could do to keep from throwing his book at Flint's pointy little head. What in the world did he thing he was on about? Looking at Liz like that, like she was… exquisite. He sighed. Could he really blame someone for seeing in her what he had, even if that someone was a slimy git? Of course he could, he thought as he sauntered grumpily out of the classroom, fuming.  
  
He never should have kissed her, he thought. If he'd just kept his hands to himself, it'd be him walking with her and not Flint. He grunted, causing a couple of first years walking past him to jump. What was he going to do? Percy said not to talk to her, but every fiber of his being screamed because he wasn't talking to her. He missed being with, her talking to her, smelling her… it was ridiculous, of that he was well aware, but somehow it didn't matter. He had to be back on speaking terms with Liz, no matter what. A small smile pulled onto his face as his feet resolutely ushered him towards the library.  
  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
  
Liz sat quietly in the library, at her usual table, Complete Works opened on the table before her. Her eyes grazed over the finely printed words, but were mind was blurring with subjects Shakespeare had never even dreamed about. All week she'd been having the strangest nightmares, and every night she'd wake herself with crying. The only images she could pull from her memory were broomsticks flying about a Quidditch field and Slytherin's banners flapping wildly in a strong wind. She thought she could make out faces and bodies, two more specifically, Wood's and Flint's, but she had no idea what it meant.  
  
A nearby crash of books drew her attentions from her dreams and towards the bookshelves behind her. Liz stood up and found that an entire row of books had been emptied onto the floor, the pages bent and lying crazily open. Liz's face furrowed slightly as she looked about for the culprit. Oddly enough, she found no one around at all. The halls and tables were empty, as was usual this time of evening. Most of the students stayed in their common rooms, but Liz had always preferred solitude, and found that library suited here disposition better than anywhere else.  
  
That's a lie, a small, nagging voice in the back of her head whispered, you never felt alone with Oliver…  
  
Liz shook her head, as if trying to clear the voice out, and it seemed to work. She headed for the books and knelt down, gently righting the books and restacking them onto the shelf. She'd often wondered if she shouldn't be a librarian. She'd be perfect for the job. She didn't know anyone who was quieter than she was, or who had a greater respect for books. Oliver… the voice began again, but Liz just clamped her teeth shut and ignored it. Oliver was the last thing she wanted to think about, now or ever.  
  
And yet, for all of it, she missed him. He was her first friend at Hogwarts, had shown her to the library, walked her to her classes. She felt safer with him than she did with anyone, more at home by his side than she did even in the grandest of libraries. But what could she do?  
  
She ran her fingers along the smooth, leathery spines of the newly shelved books and sighed. She wished she were a heroine in a book. They always make the right decisions and know exactly what to do, she thought. "They also always get the guy." She murmured under her breath, thankful for her solidarity.  
  
She slowly made her way back to her chair and collapsed into it with a heavy sigh, running her fingers over her eyes. She opened her eyes, letting her hands drop to her lap, and began reading again, but something stopped her. A folded piece of parchment interrupted the methodical monotony of the black print. Liz leaned forward and picked it up. It was school parchment, she was sure of it. The yellowed grain of the paper was identical to the kind McGonagall wanted used on all of her essays. She slowly opened it, and slightly gasped as fine, swirling, black ink came to life before her eyes. The letters had been enchanted to write as soon as the paper were opened, it seemed, so as Liz watched, the note rewrote itself, as though ghostly hands were moving over the sheet. Liz's eyes widened as she read the words…  
  
She walks in beauty, or does she so?  
  
Her gait is graceful and lady-like enough.  
  
I swear I never saw a goddess go,  
  
But her sweet step makes honeyed milk seem gruff.  
  
Her hair could set the deepest night to shame,  
  
Yet unkempt and unmannerly it is.  
  
Her smile, so askew, and yet so tame,  
  
Could melt this heart of stony make, and 'tis  
  
Not the sun which lights the midday sky, but  
  
Her holy-peace eye that sparks like fire on  
  
Pentecostal souls. My intentions rot  
  
My teeth, like sweetmeats, and hope for my child.  
  
That its mother may this goddess be,  
  
I may forfeit this lone immortality.  
  
  
  
The note dropped from Liz's fingers and floated gently to the floor, like a feather. She stared ahead of her into the dark library that surrounded her for what seemed like forever. Then, ever so slowly, a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth and lit up all the way into her eyes. She sat there beaming for the longest time before she quickly bent over and grabbed the note and shoved it in between the pages of her notebook, and shot out of her chair, gliding giddily through the library towards the hall.  
  
From behind a nearby bookshelf, Oliver sighed, smiling.  
  
"It's a start," he said quietly as he slowly followed suit and meandered towards the hall. "It's a start." 


End file.
